I grew up on the back of a bike, riding in a plastic seat strapped to the back of a 1970’s Schwinn 3-speed, if I remember correctly. My parents would ride my sister and I around the neighborhood, which was a bunch of trailers spread out along a road I can’t believe was paved. It was good living back in the day, when I had the freedom to wander across the fields to my friend’s house to watch the Star-Spangled Banner play on television when network television came on first thing Saturday morning before cartoons. Before that though, I saw the world from the back of the bicycle, and legend has it I spoke all things I saw into being. When one parent couldn’t take it anymore they would stop and switch. Did they switch bicycles, or just us children? I don’t remember this displeasing me. I was happy to have a new audience to whom I could explain all of the wonders of the world through my toddler eyes. I still like to talk on bike rides.

-Juancho

last night i cut the sleeves off my favorite jersey
for dave
because of dave

last night i sat in a straight-backed wooden chair
no air conditioning
bolt upright
waiting for dave to show up

i thought of once when he looked at a bike i was working on
and said under his breath with a smile, “that’ll never work.”

he was right

i thought of once riding – full gas – off the front of some silly group ride
thinking i had things stretched out real good and proper
and suddenly realizing i had dave in my shadow
breathing words of encouragement – he was

i asked him to “pull-through,” looking at him over my shoulder
“this’ll never work,” i heard him mutter under his breath…

he was right

tonight a million years ago
i sat waiting for dave to show up
to ride across town for beer
to stand over our bikes on the tops of hills
– listening to the cicadas and the breeze

one night as we sat quietly off Gaines street breathing in the glorious “nothing” that tends to happen
we saw a rider approaching
as the person passed going up the long hill toward the capital building
dave and i both instinctively stuck up our hands in greeting
the guy looked right at us – kept going – and did not wave back
realizing we both knew the guy, we sat for another moment in silence
then dave said, “that guy needs to raise his saddle.”

he was right

a year or so later, on another hyped-up group ride, i overheard the guy dave and i saw that night –

he was talking about how he had changed his riding position – it looked very much like he had raised his saddle

last night i cut the sleeves off my favorite jersey
for dave
because i need to hang on to dave in my heart
because dave had this special way of being “right” about things
that taught me something
i will never forget him

Scot Benton

Thanks Scot, for sharing this with us. We will see everyone at Joe’s Bike Shop @ 10:00 A:M on Saturday, sleeveless.

Juancho

For those of you long-time Circus carnies, you remember the Jaguarundi I’m sure. If you are new to the site I am referring to a remarkable event about 5 years ago when I and my friend Hambone saw a large, dark-furred cat with a long ropy tail on the trail off of a local road in the middle of a dense suburban metro area. I was in front (of course, yo) and Hambone was right behind me and we saw the animal at about the same time. It heard us and bounded down a steep bank and into a drainage tunnel that leads into the woods. In that moment the rest of our party appeared and we were unable to find a definitive print or evidence of any kind. You can read the back-story by searching Jaguarundi, or Black Panther in this blog and I suggest you do. It would be good to familiarize yourself with the derision and scorn we absorbed for stating a truth beyond the comprehension of the existing shared paradigm. Impossible maybe, but true nonetheless. We accepted the compromise of an obscure species of cat known as the Jaguarundi (indigenous to South America.) The state wildlife office classified the sighting as ” Likely Otter” which is a good argument for deep Republican cuts to their budget (the punks!)

I share this with you now as a preface to this new information I have learned which indeed proves that the shared paradigm is a fragile thing.

Click Here for and reconsider the Jaguarundi sighting anew.

Juancho

It was old home week last night at the Tallahassee Rock Gym. For those who don’t know, the Rock Gym was the brain-child of a couple of friends back in a time I like to call the early nineties. They sold it to a young buck with a dream, and he is still making it happen, giving North Floridians a chance to learn the skills necessary to travel far away and scare the shit out of themselves.

I used to work there, but it was more like charity really. The Torso would pay all of us rock grommets to sit down there in either kiln-like heat or damp cold and teach people how to belay, and to spray out the rental shoes with Lysol. I have nothing but the fondest memories of the place and it served as my headquarters for many years.

Last night we were back in there climbing with vigor. Four of us that date back to the conception of the place were running laps up the wall and lamenting our blown-out fingers at the end of the night. The place was packed with babies (20-somethings) grinding out torturous boulder problems and politely making way for us grizzled first ascenters to have our fun. There were messages on a marker board from folks who graduated and moved on, or just moved on. They said things like, “This place will always be my home” and “TRG Forever.”

We played a little woulda, shoulda, coulda in the parking lot, but really, there is a lot to be proud of for the progenitors. They created a thing that survived. A new generation thinks of it as nothing but theirs, and they own a part of its history too.

How many of us get to do that?

Juancho

I filled my jersey pockets with big scooping handfuls of Munson sand last night so that I would not float away. I felt light, not just in heft, but light of heart as well. Worry-free, content. I pedaled into the malingering crowd a moment before departure. There is W.B. There is his enforcer, his son. There is Big Worm. I bobbed along near them, daylight blinking beneath my tires as I inhaled and exhaled.

I left the pack in the car. No tube, no pump, no patchkit. No tools, first-aid kit, spare glasses or food. Two strong legs, a water bottle, and some hope for the future- that’s all I carried. I joined the current of riders as they seeped up the trail. At the top of the hill someone said, “If you want to go fast, then go now” and everybody waited. Two guys, then Big Worm, and when nobody moved for his wheel, I took it.

We galloped along in big ground-gobbling strides, and I hung on long enough to taste what it might be to belong there. After 5 or so miles the spell was broken. Maybe I tapped a brake, or burned the last molecule of the previous day’s hamburger, but I kept on. I watched the Clydesdale on the back of Worm’s jersey slowly pull away through the trees until it was gone.

I waited for the WB, and rode it in with he and his boy, my barrel smoking and low on ammo. Too much fun, too much stupid available joy to be had, out there floating away.

Juancho